


everyday words seem to turn into love songs

by scoutshonour



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Established Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Love You, Light Angst, M/M, Nancy Wheeler-Centric, Polyamory, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, except it's 10 + 1 but u know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 15:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoutshonour/pseuds/scoutshonour
Summary: There's a vast difference between saying you'd take a bullet for someone and actually taking the bullet; by now, after everything, they should both know that she'd take it, in a heartbeat.(or: ten times Nancy wants to say she loves Steve and Jonathan but doesn't + the one time she does)





	everyday words seem to turn into love songs

**Author's Note:**

> basically. I saw this one post about how Nancy's a shit girlfriend and I lost my shit. Nancy Wheeler is wonderful. I despise all the hate she gets bc bro!!!!!! she was drunk!!!! and sad!!! and all these teens are dumb and have fucked up bc hey!!! real people have done dumb things!!! they're still good people !!!!! hellllooooooooooooo she deserves better than this fandom and if u love her, I love u ok
> 
>  
> 
> anyway, she loves Steve and Jonathan. So much. 
> 
> also, this takes place right after like. the climax and shit. you know. kind of a follow-up to my fic "you ease my mind, you make everything feel fine" but you don't have to read that to read this!! just know that they get together in the aftermath of likeeeeee the gate closing or WHATEVER u know what I mean
> 
> title from Louis Armstrong's "la vie en rose"

Let’s get one thing out of the way: an inability to say ‘I love you’ does not mean the love isn’t there.

You can show love in more ways, can’t you? Leaving the girl of your dreams to be with someone you truly believe makes her happy; fighting off interdimensional monsters to keep the boys that are frustratingly lodged in your heart safe; telling her ‘it’s okay’ when it’s not, not really. Oh, lest we forget the camera.

The point is: Nancy doesn’t have to say it for it to be true.

She _feels_ it. God, she feels everything, every single word, etched along her soul.

Falling for them is easy.

Jonathan, with his camera, with the dozens of pictures he’ll take and slip in her locker, like love notes. They’re so intimate. She loves seeing the way he sees them, the moments he’ll capture of her and Steve like he _needs_ for Steve kissing Nancy’s hand or Nancy’s arm protectively wrapped around Steve immortalized. Like there is truly nothing more beautiful and extraordinary in his world than them.

Steve, with his constant affection, the _you’re pretty’s_ and the _I like your smile’s._  The way his kisses loosen up every single nerve in Nancy’s body, make the tension in her bones leave, and she can just melt into a puddle. How it’ll make Jonathan _giggle._

They come together in the middle of disaster, with sweat sticking to their skin, bandages wrapped around Jonathan's leg, and exhaustion settled in their bones.

Because what the _fuck_ does it matter if you've almost died.

Because their lives are anything but normal.

Because she can't stop ignoring the pull towards them _both_ and how being with one doesn't suddenly stop her from wanting the other.

Because Steve and Jonathan have always fit together better than they'd known.

Because of course the biggest way Nancy Wheeler's going to give a _fuck you_ to conventionality is by dating two boys.

Because it's always a little better with the three of them around, the final piece of a puzzle coming together and finally, the picture's complete.

Falling is one thing. Saying it is another. Besides, Nancy's always a firm believer in your actions speaking louder than your words. Words can be empty. There's a vast difference between saying you'd take a bullet for someone and actually taking the bullet; by now, after everything, they should both know that she'd take it, in a heartbeat.

('Cause it’s there. She swears, it’s there.)

 

 

 

 

 

1.

She wakes up to the smell of bacon and the sound of it sizzling. Nancy can practically _feel_ Jonathan staring at her.

“Creep,” she murmurs through a yawn. She's teasing, bygones and whatnot, and smiles because some of the weight on the back of her shoulders, since Barb, since the stupid fucking party, has lifted.

Because last night, in the first of many, she fell asleep next to Steve _and_ Jonathan.

The alarm clock on Jonathan’s nightstand reads eleven am; despite having slept for ten hours, she’s still exhausted. The chaos of last night, mixed with everything that happened—she absentmindedly touches her lips, grinning when she recalls the mental image of Steve and Jonathan’s mouths pressed against hers, pressed against each other’s—still leaves her tired. But, as Jonathan’s eyes crinkle with a smile, she’s good.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice sleepy and scratchy.

She tilts her head up, her chest contracting at the sleepy look on Jonathan’s face. His bags of exhaustion, the dried drool on his cheek, and his bed-head make her grin. “Definitely. What about you?”

“Mhm. I think my leg is broken, but I don't really care. Not when I’m waking up next to you and Steve’s making us breakfast.”

Nancy hums. She leans forward to close the space between them.

“Wait. Haven't brushed my teeth.”

“Don’t care."

She takes joy at nipping at his mouth, at the pleased groan she elicits, at grabbing either side of his face and pulling him in. She's half-tempted to crawl on top of him, but doesn't want to agitate his leg.

“Good morning to me.”

Nancy reluctantly draws back, her forehead dropping to Jonathan’s as they share a shaky laugh.

She turns her head to look at Steve. He’s braced against the doorframe of Jonathan's room with a lazy grin.

“Dork,” Jonathan says.

“Okay, so should I just go on out then—”

“Come _here._ ” Jonathan grabs Steve’s wrist and tugs him firmly towards the bed. Steve grunts out in surprise—Jonathan doesn’t look strong, but you learn otherwise when you’re attacking monsters or, you know, he’s pulling you into bed—and carefully wedges himself onto his lap.

Nancy’s thought about them kissing. Their crushes have been obvious to her since day one, but she never imagined either of them would act on it. She’s never been happier to be wrong.

She prides herself on her eloquence and how well she articulates her thoughts, but she has no idea how else to phrase the sight of Steve and Jonathan— _her boyfriends_ —kissing as something other than stupidly hot. It's not angry even though they crash together. It’s passionate, it's fervent, it's the palpable relief she can feel bouncing off the two of them.  

It's beautiful.

It also annoys her again that Jonathan's leg is _broken_ and they can't, more like _shouldn't,_ touch him. Because now that they're kissing languidly and Steve's moaning against Jonathan's lips, the idea of them together is stuck in her head.

Steve parts, his cheeks flushed, and leans towards Nancy.

“Oh, but can you, if you've swallowed his tongue?”

“Jonathan, is she jealous? ‘Cause she sounds jealous.”

“No, I’m _amused_ at how gross you two looked, sucking each other’s faces—”

Jonathan grins. “Like you weren’t just ogling us, you liar.”

“It’s okay, Nance,” Steve says softly, and how does he expect her to _breathe_ when he’s curling his hand around her cheek so tenderly, “I can swallow your tongue too.”

She’d call him an idiot if she didn’t want to kiss him so badly. He’s so earnest, so sweet when she pulls away and he looks at her with those _puppy eyes._

“I missed you,” she admits, and it’s tumbling past her mouth before she can help herself, “and we need to talk about it. Why we broke up.”

“I can leave—”

“Nance, it’s fine," Steve says, ignoring Jonathan, "We don’t have to.”

“No, we _do._ This is the thing, Steve—”

“ _Steve,_ my leg!”

After five minutes of profuse apologizing on Steve’s behalf and him peppering kisses up and down Jonathan’s face, Nancy needing to pinch his cheeks because _how damn cute are you,_ Steve crawls into Nancy’s other side. He slings an arm around her shoulders so his fingers can play with Jonathan’s hair.

Jonathan’s discomfort is evident as he hides his face in Nancy’s shoulder but neither help him out. It’s okay if he’s there.

“It’s just. I _told_ you.” She’s going to start crying. Nancy pauses, inhaling and exhaling slowly. She stares at a loose thread hanging from Jonathan’s comforter, because one look in Steve’s eyes and she’s finished. “That I felt like _shit,_ that everything felt so goddamn fake, and you just—you took the one bit that revolved around us and spun it into something it wasn’t. You wanted me to say it and I couldn’t, okay? Not with Jonathan, not when, not when it was so fucking obvious how much I wanted him. But I shouldn’t have said it like that, shouldn’t have _hurt you_ the way I did. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t speak at first. When she’s about to open her mouth and ramble, Steve tips her chin up. “I get it, okay? I do. It’s not—I’m not mad. I’m not, honestly! I shouldn’t have left you at the party, shouldn’t have gotten so. I dunno. Defensive. I should’ve listened. I’m—”

“No apologizing.”

“Why not?”

“No. Apologizing.”

“Nance, _you_ apologized first.”

She softens. “One apology.”

“Sooooooooooooo…” He childishly grins as he extends his apology out, Nancy and Jonathan rolling their eyes simultaneously.

Jonathan groans. “Are you really doing this?”

Steve lasts an impressive amount of time. Nancy’s frustration cuts him off with a searing kiss, only for the fire alarm to go off and interrupt them.

“Steve, if we die in a house-fire that _you_ started—” Jonathan sighs.

“No one’s dying!” He calls over his shoulder, sprinting towards the kitchen.

Once Steve finishes turning off the fire alarm, (“I might have broken it”), he and Nancy help Jonathan into the kitchen. "Try my pancakes, they're delicious. Nance, tell 'em."

"They're soggy,” she says flippantly.

"Hey, no, _compliment_ me."

"I don't like pancakes," Jonathan says airily, chewing on a strip of bacon.

Steve gasps, his hand flying to his face with a look of horror that makes Nancy chuckle. She and Jonathan share one of their looks that says everything they're thinking; _yes, we're really dating him._ "I can't date you anymore."

"You like me too much."

"True. Annoyingly true."

Nancy calls Hopper's place as Steve tries to coax Jonathan into trying one piece of his pancake. He tells her that the kids are still sleeping and everyone's okay. She tentatively excludes Jonathan's leg; Joyce has enough to worry about. For now, Steve and Nancy have got her boy.

“Let’s go to the hospital," she says once she's hung up. 

“Whoa, wait, you haven’t finished your breakfast yet,” Jonathan says, frowning.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Steve adds. 

“Your leg could be amputated,” she deadpans, but their disappointed stares remain unwavering. She gives in, grabbing the untouched piece of toast on Jonathan’s plate and shoving it into her mouth. “Let’s goooooo.”

They assist Jonathan into the backseat of his car. As Nancy closes the door and motions to the passenger seat, Steve taps her shoulder. “Hey. I want to know if it’s okay if I still say it. You don’t have to, but I want to. Not to hear it back, but for you to hear it.”

It’s so unexpected that she laughs, burying her head into his shoulder. “I’m keeping you forever.”

“Let’s get our boyfriend fixed up first.”

“You love saying that, don’t you?”

He shoots her a smile that sends her tingles and butterflies and warmth throughout her body as he opens the car door. “It’s not the only thing I love.”

(It’s there, on the tip of her tongue. But not yet.)

 

 

 

 

 

2.

Jonathan's bed-ridden for a few days.

He misses a few days of school; Nancy and Steve bring him his homework and visit everyday. She's honestly relieved. Sure, it's not ideal, but after everything—he deserves a break.

"Chicken soup," Steve says, setting a hot container down on Jonathan's nightstand.

"But I'm not sick—"

"Shh," she mumbles, her jacket already discarded on the floor. She bends down and pulls Jonathan forward by the collar of his shirt. It's slightly awkward, because she's doing this ridiculous crouch to meet Jonathan at his wheelchair height, so she tries to position herself in his lap but _that_ doesn't work since she's still kissing him. 

"What are you trying to do?" 

"I'm _trying_ to sit on your lap! It's not working,” she huffs frustratingly, trying not to whack Jonathan upside the head as he laughs.

“I got you, Nance. Hold on.”

Her face heats up as Steve helps her adjust her legs to properly straddle him, but definitely not as much as Jonathan’s, face fully flushed.

It’s fun making Jonathan squirm and whimper. Steve sits on the edge of his bed and has Jonathan panting in her mouth as he bites and nuzzles at his neck. His erection doesn't take long to press against her thigh, but she waits until Steve looks at her to do something. Together, they get him off as slowly as possible, and as he collects himself, get each other off too. It’s their first time since the breakup and they finish quickly. It’s not even about the rush of pleasure, but about being close to him again. Skin to skin, chest to chest, she wants to be as close to him as possible.

“Jonathan. Byers. Come here and join us in the afterglow,” Steve says.

“Right, I’ll just jump on over.”

“You have crutches, don’t you?” Nancy says rhetorically, but even as she’s saying it, they’re already hooking an arm around either shoulder and pulling him onto one edge of the bed.

“You guys are … pretty together.” Jonathan sounds flustered, his cheeks red.

“So separately, we’re ugly?” Steve teases, resting his chin on Jonathan’s shoulder.

“Uh-huh,” he responds, laughing.

Steve’s fingers intertwine with Nancy’s as he seems determined to make Jonathan blush as much as possible, trailing kisses alongside his shoulder. She presses a brief kiss to Steve’s knuckles, before asking again, “Was that okay?”

“Are you kidding? Of _course._ You guys were—good. Very good. Thank you.”

Steve snorts out a laugh while Nancy reaches across his chest to cup Jonathan’s cheek. “You’re precious,” she says solemnly.

“ _Y_ _ou’re_ wonderful.” He slides his hand over the one she has on his face, and she can feel the imprint of his scar. Matching battle wounds, she romanticizes, that will always bind them together. 

“You’re both, like, insanely hot, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Jonathan smirks, tousling Steve’s hair.

“Trust me, I never forget,” Nancy says.

“Nerd.”

“In a rare moment,” Jonathan says, “Nancy and Steve have switched roles. I’ve truly seen it all.”

They lay in Jonathan’s bed like that for awhile, lazy and still and content. Joyce is working and Will is at the Wheeler residence, so Steve and Nancy are very naked as they walk around the house when they need something, like to use the washroom or find a pen to doodle over Jonathan’s cast.

She’s not sure when she falls asleep, but she wakes up holding Steve and has a comforter that wasn't there before strewn over her. The spot where Jonathan was is empty and panic surges through her chest, wild and frantic, until she sits up and sees him sitting in his wheelchair with a book in his hands.

“Excuse me! Where did you go?”

“I was thirsty,” he says so innocently she almost laughs. Instead, she pelts a pillow at him.

“You scared me. God, you _scared_ me.”

His face softens and he wheels closer, setting the book down. “Hey, hey, I’m okay. We’re all good.”

“Yeah, we are.”

“You two looked so peaceful,” he confesses, “I thought I’d wake you up if I got in. Figured neither of you would be sleeping well, anyway.”

“I sleep well next to you and Steve.”

“You just woke up shrieking, what’re you talking about?”

“I wasn’t _shrieking,_ I was breathing loudly,” she defends.

“You also drool,” he adds. Right as she’s about to retort, he gestures to the wet patch on his shoulder.

She stares defeatedly, her shoulders slumping. “Steve drools too,” she defends.

“Yeah, on you, not on me. You also snore.” Cocky little shit.

She rolls her eyes, well aware of her snoring from the times Steve complained only to tell her how adorable he found it. “Yeah yeah, I’m annoying when I sleep, I get it. I’m even more annoying when I don’t get what I want, so come back to bed.” She reaches out for him, but he’s able to awkwardly hitch himself onto the bed.

Steve doesn’t stir, always a log when he sleeps.

He drapes an arm over Steve’s chest, his fingertips meeting her waist.

“When did you start?”

“Hmm?”

“Liking Steve?”

Jonathan blushes, unable to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to—"

“No, it’s okay,” he mumbles, looking up to see Steve, asleep. Jonathan’s right: he looks calm and utterly serene when asleep. Beautiful, too. “When he came back.”

Jonathan doesn’t need to go further. She knows very well what he's talking about, that day in his house. It feels like a millennium ago. That moment changed everything for her. When _Steve_ changed right before her eyes, becoming more than some stupid crush and into something tangible, real and solid. He could’ve left, but he didn’t. There was nothing binding him to that house. (She wonders if maybe there was; if maybe it was her and Jonathan.)

She can’t help but ask, “What about me?”

This time, he looks at her, one eyebrow raised. “Really?”

“Really.” She leans across Steve’s chest to nudge him. “C’mon, I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

He smiles, so she knows she's won. "If I had to pinpoint it, I guess it’d be—okay, remember when I decked Steve?"

"How could I forget?"

"You...you were holding the ice pack to my face. I guess I just saw you differently. You had this embarrassed smile, and I realized how fucked I was. Your turn."

"Remember when we went into the woods? I lost you, and I thought." She gulps, the familiar pit of fear rising in her chest. "I thought I was going to die. But I didn't. I followed your voice, ran into you, and—and I felt so safe in your arms. Like...never mind, it's stupid."

Jonathan's face brightens with a grin. "What?"

"It's stupid!" She insists.

"Now I _have_ to know." He lazily traces shapes on her arm, bringing goosebumps and shivers, the whole damn thing. "Please?"

Fuck him and that _stupid,_ stupid smile. "Like coming home," she admits softly, noting the way his fingers stop and his face lights up.

"That...that was the loveliest thing I've ever heard. Who knew Nancy Wheeler was such a romantic?"

"His fault," she grumbles, gesturing to Steve. "All his fault."

"I like it," Jonathan says, completely serious, and God help Nancy—she giggles.  

"I could do this more often," she murmurs, watching the rise and fall of Steve's chest. "Napping with you two. Not the romantic part. You, uh, you sure your mom won't mind coming home to her son sleeping with two, half-naked people?" To be safe, she rucks the comforter higher up her chest.

"She won't. I mean, she didn't say anything when she came home to you two sleeping next to me, but I think she knows. I just don't want to tell her. It'd feel like I'm rubbing it in or something, with—with what happened. She's trying to be all strong and stoic, but. But she doesn't have to be. Y'know?" Jonathan's voice cracks and Nancy's chest lurches, her arm instinctively shooting out to pull him closer. Steve groans, but doesn't wake up, and she nearly drags Jonathan on top of him in the process.

"I do. It's—she has you, you and Will. Just _be_ there. If she doesn't accept it, be aggressively there."

This earns another amused smile. "How do I aggressively support my mom?"

"I don't know. You're a good son, you'll figure it out. She's lucky to have you."

Jonathan's smile widens as he tentatively leans forward. "Can I—"

"Yes," she says without missing a beat, surging forward to close the space between them.

"Can someone kiss me next, please," Steve says through a yawn.

Nancy and Jonathan bump their heads as they try to quickly press a kiss to his mouth. "Jesus," Nancy spits out, wincing as she touches the soon-to-be bump on the side of her head. "What is your face made of? _Stone?_ "

Steve almost falls over laughing as he gets up to grab them ice, and their middle fingers simultaneously shoot up.

Jonathan's head doesn't hurt as much, so he sets his ice pack on the floor. "Here, let me," he says suavely, taking the pack from Nancy's hand and pressing it to her forehead with a hint of a smile.

"Deja-vu, huh?"  She remarks fondly. She wonders if he notices the stars dancing in her eyes.

She doesn't have to say it, not when it's written out across her face.

 

 

 

 

 

3.

Nancy's not sure when _this_ happened. (Story of her _life._ )

The kids (Nancy's pleased to see El and Max as part of the gang, making sure to ruffle their hair when she comes down to give drinks) are gathered in the Wheeler basement for one of their games. Typical Saturday night.

Except the doorbell's rung and Dustin bursts through with a quick but excited, "Hi, Nancy!", and there her boyfriend stands, watching Dustin go.

"Did you bring him here?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't focus on anything other than _you're in all pink._ "

She swats his shoulder, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him anyway. "Answer the question,” she says against his lips.

"Maybe. He's alright,” Steve says, trying to sound indifferent. Nancy’s almost certain he adores the kid with everything he’s got; it’s not hard to adore Dustin Henderson. “ _What?_ "

"Nothing," she says, looping her arms around his neck, "it's just that you're cute. You and your newly-adopted son."

Steve tickles her side. "Shut up."

"You mean that?"

" _Never_.”

"Stay? We can have a night in. I'll call Jonathan."

Steve smiles. "Course. Can we cuddle?"

"Course."

" _STEVE,_ " Max shrieks from downstairs, "are you not going to say _hi?_ Stop being so fucking rude!"

"Hey, there are adults here!" Lucas shouts back.

"No, it's fine! My parents are sleeping! _Goddammit,_ Steve!" Mike's voice cracks. Ah, puberty.

Nancy tilts her head towards the stairs leading into the basement. "Go. Your kids need you."

"But you—"

"STEVE."

"I AM _COMING._ "

She fights back a laugh as his face goes from murderous to smitten immediately, standing back on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead. "Go. Be a good father."

"Oh, shut _up._ I'll be back soon. Love you."

"L—" _Love you too._ He doesn't catch it. She doesn't miss how easily that nearly came out of her mouth, her hand clapping over her mouth as Steve descends down the flight of stairs.

It's not a big deal. It's the same thing as when your waiter tells you to enjoy your meal and you say 'you too' because you're an idiot and it's a reflex. Just a reflex. But she can't stop thinking about it, not when they're sprawled across her living room couch, not when they nearly knock Jonathan over with kisses when he arrives.

"You're staring, Wheeler," Steve tells her over the movie they're watching.

Jonathan's fast-asleep, his head lolled on her shoulder and one of his hands on Steve's hair.

"Got a problem with that, Harrington?"

"Long as it's okay if I stare back."

"You’ve willingly entered a staring contest with me. Are you re—oh fuck, I _lost._ Rematch.”

(She loses that time, too.)

 

 

 

 

 

4.

She almost misses the picture the first time Jonathan leaves one in her locker.

Almost steps on it, too. She nearly hisses when she realizes what she's done, bending down and holding it close to her chest when she spies Jonathan's quick and rushed scrawl on the back.

She flips it over. It’s a picture of her, her hair right after she’d washed it, fluffy and messy, and she’s holding a cup of hot chocolate. The back of the photo reads: _Told you you’re adorable._ She tucks it carefully between her binders and beams all the way to class.

Steve greets her by her locker at the beginning of lunch. “Did you get a lovely little picture from our boyfriend?”

“Mhm.” She ducks in for a brief peck. “Let me see yours.” It’s one of Steve laying in Jonathan’s bed, his eyes shut and his fingers posed in a peace sign. She’s tempted to steal it from him.

They practically skip over to the dark room, both ready to kill Jonathan with affection.

“You’re too cute, has anyone ever told you that?” Steve says in lieu of a greeting, sliding onto an empty table and swinging his feet back and forth.

“I’ve been told I look like a serial killer.”

“A _cute_ serial killer,” Steve insists, hooking his legs around Jonathan’s waist and reeling him in.

Nancy dumps her backpack onto the floor, happy to take up the corner and watch Steve frame Jonathan’s face with his hands, tilting his face for a kiss. Nancy’s starting to believe that the darkroom has become Steve’s favourite place because he can be as affectionate with Jonathan as he can with Nancy in public.

In here, there’s no bullshit. In here, it’s just them.

“You guys got the pictures?”  

“We sure did, Romeo.” Nancy saunters up to him, tipping his chin downwards.

“I made some, uh, mixtapes too," he says sheepishly, and she's pretty sure her and Steve are seconds away from swooning.

“Holy fuck, I think we won boyfriend jackpot, Nance.”

“Think I won that twice," she says slyly, thumbing the flush blooming on Jonathan's cheeks.

“I’m—I might cry,” Steve says seriously.

She listens to the mixtape the rest of the night, placing it on her bookshelf.

The following day, she and Steve also demand that Jonathan lets them take a few pictures of him.

“Why,” he gripes, “I don’t need to see my own face.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for _us.”_

This shuts him up and Steve captures his starstruck, awed face. Nancy and Steve get one copy of the same picture. Steve puts it in his wallet; Nancy struggles on where to put it, before deciding on her cork board up in her room. Underneath a picture of her and Barb and one of her and Steve from a school dance. Her heart flutters a little when she puts it up.

She wonders if that’s what love is—if it makes her that damn wild over a picture.

(The day after that she gets another picture in her locker. It’s another one of Jonathan, one Will must have taken—he’s in sweatpants and a ratty, Clash shirt, his eyes crinkled in a smile as he tries to hide his face. _‘Cause this’ll make you smile, even if I’ll never hear the end of it.)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

5.

It’s the middle of the night when her window pounds. She jerks upright, her mind screaming at her to find her gun.

But then there’s the faint sound of broken sobbing and she freezes, her shoulders slumping with some relief.

It’s been months since Steve slid into her window. She accustomed to leaving it unlocked for him, to skip through the part where she’d have her gun pointed at her boyfriend, but after the breakup …

She jumps to her feet, almost knocking her lamp over to turn it on. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she chants breathlessly, blinking away the exhaustion from being interrupted mid-sleep.

It’s worse than before; before, she could tell when things got too heavy without him having to tell her. He’d always try to compensate for the trembling. Steve was never so raw and vulnerable the way he is now.

This time, there’s no kissing, no playfully shot up hands at the sight of her gun, no _I just had to see you_ (that was usually him trying to deflect from nightmares—she made sure to kiss him a little harder and hold him a little tighter).

Just Steve and his tears.

Her fingers shake as she pulls her window open. "Hey, hey, what happened?"

"I'm—I'm _okay,_ " he sniffles unconvincingly, wiping his face with his sleeve before crawling into her room. He tries shutting the ledge but like her, his hands keep shaking, so she reaches over to help him.

"C'mere, c'mere, what happened?" Nancy gently takes his hand into hers, bringing him to her bed.

She takes a better look at his face, his red-rimmed eyes, the bags underneath his eyes. Absolute, utter wreck; it makes her heart twist, makes her want to smother him with love.

"I was sleeping, then I wasn't. I just—I couldn't go back to sleep, and you're closer than Jonathan, and I thought, he's got enough to worry about anyway with his mom—"

" _Hey,_ it's okay, you're not," she urges. "You're not a burden, Steve. I'm going to call him—"

"No, don't, it's late—"

"He won't mind. He'd do anything for you, you know that right? Steve, is it okay if I call him?"

All hesitation drains out of him and he looks as exhausted as he must feel, curling up underneath Nancy's blanket. "Yes, please."

"I'm going to call him," she says slowly, rubbing her eyes, "and I'm going to make you some hot chocolate. 'S that okay?"

"You don't, you don't have to take care of me. I shouldn't have—"

"I mean this in the nicest way, but shut up. I don't have to. I _want_ to." The firmness in her voice surprises her. She draws in a breath, softening at the small smile on Steve's mouth.

"Okay," he says, his voice cracking.

Nancy props herself up on her knees, cradling his face. "You're okay. I've got you. Jonathan will be here soon. Is it okay if I head out for a few minutes?"

"Uh-huh." Steve gives her a small smile that looks _real,_ and she holds onto it.

She tiptoes through her house, avoiding the creaks that are sure to disrupt Holly, who wakes easily. She boils some milk and calls Jonathan, her finger twirling around the cord.

"Nancy?" He sounds disgruntled, and she can hear the tiredness in his voice. "Everything okay?"

"I'm sorry for waking you up, it's just—kind of? Nothing life-threatening, but Steve...he's not okay. Can you come over? Through the window."

"Oh. Oh, oh, okay, definitely. I'll—yeah. Be there soon. Are you ok—"

"Yeah, I am. Are you—"

"Yeah," he says immediately. 

"Good," she breathes out. "I'll see you in a few. Also, do you want hot chocolate?"

She uses one of her mother's trays to bring the three cups of hot chocolate upstairs. She slowly pushes the door open so she won't scare him.

"Marshmallows?"

"Do I look like some kind of amateur to you?" Nancy teases, setting the tray onto her nightstand. She passes him the cup. "Jonathan's on his way."

"Thank you," Steve says, cocooning himself into her side.

She wraps an arm around him, trying to give him as much warmth as possible. He doesn't deserve this, none of them do, and she wants to take every nightmare, bad thought, and ounce of pain away from him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he answers,  Not now."

She won't push. He'll be ready when he's ready. "Okay. Whatever you want, Steve."

"I'm _here!_ " Jonathan pants, slapping a hand against the frame. "I'm here!"

"Jonathan," Nancy laughs, waving her hand towards the floor to silently tell him to _shut up._  "Did you _run?_ "

"Maybe," he says, looking like he's on the verge of death as he hops inside . "Steve. Are you okay?"

"Better now that you're here."

Nancy pats the space on Steve's free side. "C'mere."

Jonathan crawls into Nancy's bed, slinging an arm around his neck. "Bad dream?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, though."

"'Course you are," Jonathan says, voice saccharine and smooth, and it makes Nancy wonder how many times he's had to calm Will down after a nightmare. How much he must be used to waking up in the middle of the night to soothe someone back to sleep.  "We're all okay, right? Safe and here and not going anywhere, either."

"Has it been happening often? The nightmares?" Nancy doesn't know if she's helping, but she takes it as a good sign that Steve doesn't tense up and that Jonathan doesn't shoot her a pointed look.

"Here and there. Nothing as bad as this night."

"You can tell us," Jonathan says. "If you want."

"Or sleep on us," Nancy adds, tracing her thumb alongside his jaw, "if that makes it easier."

Steve nods, rubbing his eyes.  "Yeah, yeah, okay. Same goes for you too. I'm a _great_ pillow."

Jonathan and Nancy chuckle, mostly because he sounds like himself. The quiet exhaustion is still in his voice, but he's not trembling anymore; she considers it a win.

"Your hot chocolate, Jonathan." She gives him his cup, careful not to spill anything.

His lower lip curls when he peers inside. "I don't like marshmallows."

Of course, this launches into a debate that Jonathan wearily forfeits.

They talk for another hour, to bring Steve back down. He eventually falls asleep in their embrace and Nancy lets herself smile, kissing his forehead, then Jonathan's.

"If this _ever_ happens to you, you can come to my place," he says. "Or call me. Or go to Steve's. You know that, right? You don't have to talk. Just come in."

"I know," Nancy whispers. It doesn't magically fix everything, it doesn't lift the trauma from the corners of her mind, but it makes it easier. Steve and Jonathan make it easier. She's not sure if it's more because they actually understand what she's gone through or because they're there for nightmares and difficult days, but gratitude swells her heart and she wants so terribly to kiss him. "You too. My hot chocolate is _superb,_ isn't it? C'mon, I know I've converted you."

"Maybe," he says with that half-smile she's so damn fond of. "Do we need to be out early? Will your mom—"

"Got a lock on the door once Steve started sneaking in. Stay as long as you want."

"Kay." Jonathan yawns, sending spit flying on her arm. "Sorry. Think I'm about to fall asleep."

"Light on or off?" They share one of their smiles, the _we-battled-wars_ -together smiles.

"Light off should be okay."

"Okay. Wait!"

"What?"

She swoops in over Steve's chest and kisses him. "Just needed to do that."

"You're an actual cheeseball."

She turns the light off and they shuffle. In the darkness, she can make out Jonathan readjusting himself so he's spooning Steve's waist, using his chest as a pillow. Nancy shifts, wrapping her arm around Steve.

She falls asleep to the reassuring sound of Steve's heavy, loud breathing, promising to always keep him safe.

 _I love you,_ she thinks. _I won't let anything hurt you again._

 

 

 

 

 

6.

Nancy, Steve, and Jonathan are all roped into chaperoning the kids' dance.

Nancy's pulled in by her mother, who insists because of how _adorable_ it'd be, what with two of her kids at the same dance. Her mother tells her later that she _thinks_ Mike has a girlfriend and would die for details. Jonathan's not really forced, volunteering purely because he wants to keep an eye on Will. Steve considered it due to Dustin's begging, but agreed when he learned that Jonathan and Nancy were going.

"Our first dance," Nancy says upon seeing Jonathan, beaming.

His hair is neatly combed and he's wearing this suit that doesn't quite fit. She still finds him cute. "And our last," Jonathan says dryly, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel only to stop when his eyes find her.

"What?"

"You look. You look good. Beautiful," he stammers, smiling.

She grins, tugging on his tie to reel him in for a kiss. "Not so bad yourself."

"I knew they were going to do this," Will mumbles from the backseat.

"Let's _go,_ " Mike groans as he puts his seatbelt on. "El is waiting!"

"You're hilarious if you think I'm not dragging your ass to prom." Nancy decides to ignore her brother because she doesn't want to be held accountable for what _will_ happen if she acknowledges him.

Steve and Dustin are already there when they arrive at the school. The gym is covered in streamers and decorations, a disco ball hung up illuminating the entire room. It's the standard dance setup; cheesy and bright, enough to fill her with nostalgia.

They find him by the bleachers, the kids' having scattered off into the crowds. Her heart stops when her eyes can't find Mike, but then she spots his mop of curls and whooshes out a relieved breath.  

Steve looks like he’s physically restraining himself from kissing Jonathan, brightening instantly at the sight of them.

“My lady,” he greets, kissing her hand. “My man.”

He reaches out to grab Jonathan’s hand but upon realizing where they are, smack dab in the middle of a crowd, forms his hand into a fist.

Jonathan smirks, bumping his fist against Steve’s. “That's the first time I’ve ever done that.”

“What— _how?”_

She rolls her eyes, tugging on Jonathan’s wrist. “Photographer, the children are waiting.”

“You look really hot by the way,” Steve whispers as Nancy blows him a kiss. She doesn't have to see him to know he's blushing.

She swings around to look at him. “So, where do they have you at?”

“Wherever you’re going to be, obviously.”

She drags him to the fruit punch table, the two of them playing _what awkward conversation these twelve year old’s must be having._ “I’ve never seen you looking so dapper before. I’m into it.”

“You’re always this gorgeous, so.”

“Stop one-upping me, goddammit.”

She gets distracted by Steve most of the time, who jumps between flirting with her, flirting with Jonathan, and dancing with the kids.

She’s strict about keeping up with the schedule the arts teacher gave them, so she doesn’t leave the table until her ‘break’.

“Your break is right now,” she informs Jonathan, gently prying his camera out of his hands.

“And?”

Nancy makes a face. “Dance with me.”

“You have two boyfriends, don’t you?”

“Jonathan.”

“Nancy.”

She grounds her teeth. “I’m going to get you to dance with me, just you wait.” She strides off towards Steve, bustling past kids and their nervous smiles and sweating hands. She clears her throat as he spins Dustin around.

“Yes, darling?”

“Dustin, may I steal Steve for a dance?”

She happily takes Dustin's place, interlocking their fingers. "Having fun with the kids?"

"They grow up so fast," Steve says, pretending to wipe a tear. "And they have so much goddamn _energy._ I'm already too old to keep up with them."

"And that's coming from you, wow. Well, I'm old and tired, so you'll have no problem keeping up with me. So come put your hand on my hip and squat a little, I can't reach your shoulder."

Steve laughs a little, doing as she's asked. "Munchkin."

"Giraffe."

They sway together, until two kids start to fight and Steve rushes to pry them off of each other. Nancy would honestly be okay if they broke each other's faces because at least she'd still have Steve's arms around her. But she spies Jonathan in the corner of her eye, hopping over to him with her hand extended. "I'll only ask you once."

"Sounds like you're asking me twice."

"Do you want me to cry? I'll cry."

"I don't dance! I _can't._ "

She cups his face, stroking his chin with her thumb. "It's okay. Most people here can't. If a kid laughs at you, which won't happen, I'll fight them, okay?"

Jonathan laughs, loosening up. "Okay. Fine. Let's _dance._ "

He's as stiff as a board when she pulls him to the centre, directly underneath the glowing disco ball. "Relax," she instructs smoothly, "you're so tense."

"I'm always tense. Always uncomfortable, anxious—"

"Oh my god," she interrupts, wrinkling her nose, "just. Chill out, okay? No monsters, no life or death situations. Just you and me. Don't I make you calm?"

"When you say it like _that,_ no." Despite that, Jonathan exhales and inches his hands towards the small of her back. He's _trying,_ and she appreciates that. "Is that okay?"

"Perfect," Nancy laughs. "Is this your first dance?"

"What gave it away?"

"You're not any worse than these bumbling, pubescent kids. Confidence _is_ sexy."

"No wonder you're so gorgeous," Jonathan says, only to immediately curse. "You're right, Steve does get to you."

Nancy twirls him around, nodding in agreement. "Did you get any good pictures?"

"Yeah. I don't think the school's gonna like all the pictures I took of you and Steve, though."

It's how Jonathan says it so casually that makes Nancy's heart skip a beat.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're cute." Before he can argue, she pokes his cheeks. "Thought we established that I'm _always_ right?"

 

 

 

 

 

7.

Barbara's birthday is on the the fourth of February.

She would have been seventeen.

It hurts Nancy when she thinks about it, thinks about all the _should have’s_ and _would have’s,_ about the "what if"s that she knows will ruin her life, but that enter her mind anyway. She sleeps fine, eats fine, is by all accounts _fine._ Wait, no.

It's another should. She _should_ be fine. Because it's what, a year and a half, give or take?  But she still feels out of her skin, like she's watching herself go through the everyday motions of life.

Feelings are so fucking illogical, it hurts. There's no logic and that's what bothers Nancy. Logically, you should get over a guy when you're with another. Logically, when your best friend was killed a year and a half ago, you should be over it. The mourning period should have ended.

Then again, logic flew out the window with a grand fuck you when the upside down rammed its way into their lives, so she shouldn't be surprised.

(Another stupid should. Nancy hates that word.)

She throws herself into her schoolwork in the days leading up to Barbara's birthday. Studies more, starts assignments that aren't due for weeks. She tells Steve and Jonathan she's not feeling well—it's not really a lie—so she can skip on home and plunge into work or fall asleep hours earlier than she's used to. It's not that she thinks that she's a burden or an inconvenience; she just _can't._ Can't get the words out, can't begin to be open and vulnerable. (What the fuck does that even _mean,_ she thinks bitterly.)

It's kind of hypocritical. She wants them to be open to her with a nightmare or whatever, but everyone's got shit in their attic, don't they?  She's not a bad girlfriend if she doesn't want to talk about her dumb, stupid feelings.

She wants to ignore Barbara's parents' phone calls. Because if the dinners before were bad enough, what on _earth_ would they be like now? But her mom keeps giving her these thin-lipped _I have no idea how to handle your grief_ smiles when she tells her she's missed another call, and she doesn't need anymore guilt in her life, so she ignores the dread in her veins and answers the third time they call.

Nancy can be honest.

She doesn't let herself sob, even if half of what she hears are uneven cries from her mother before her father replaces her with his painfully grave voice. She tells them as politely as possible that _she just can't see them,_ and that she hopes they understand. They do. They're good people.

She tells them that Barb always loved them, which was true. They weren't your bullshit kind of family; friendly on the outside, hollow on the inside. Barbara's father made a big breakfast every Sunday and taught her how to ride her bicycle, and her mother played the piano with her and talked to her about everything.

It's a short conversation that could be manageable if her father hadn't said right before hanging up, "You were always such a good friend."

It feels like someone stabbed her in the stomach. The cry that leaves her throat is guttural and when she sinks to the floor, she doesn't want to get up.

 

 

 

 

Mike cracks the door open an hour later when he gets home. He's the only person home; her father's at work, and her mother's taking Holly to one of her dance lessons.

"Nancy," he says slowly, sounding deathly afraid, "are you ... I mean, do you wanna talk?"

"I'm fine, Mike," she sniffs, sitting upright in her bed. It's a crock of shit: her face is red, her eyes are puffy, the makeup from earlier smudged, and she's in bed at four in the afternoon. But she puts up a front anyway. "Seriously."

"Nancy..."

"Mike, I'm _fine._ "

He's still pale and frowning, but he closes the door. She thinks he'll leave it.

She's wrong.

Her door creaks open again twenty minutes later and she grits her teeth. "I _told_ you that I'm okay, Mike, now get the _fuck_ —"

"Nance."

Her eyes widen and she wipes her face clean. Her heart glows at the sight of her boys, but she can’t stand the creases in their faces. "I didn't know you guys were coming."

"Mike called," Jonathan says, closing the door behind him. "What happened?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, shaking her head. She's stronger than that, isn't she?

"Hey, it's okay if you don't want to tell us," Steve says, placing his and Jonathan's jackets by her desk. "But we want to stay. Can we?"

Nancy rubs her eyes. "Sure." _Yes. Don't leave._

"If you want to talk, we'll be here. Right here." Jonathan and Steve sit on either side of her, and she breathes them in. She finds it easier to exhale when she's nestled in between them.

She rolls her head onto Jonathan's shoulder as Steve drapes a blanket of warmth over her by wrapping an arm around her waist.

"You want the blanket on?"

"Okay."

"Did you, I mean, have you, have you been feeling like this for awhile? You've been quiet for a few days, we just—we thought you might come to us, so we didn't say anything, which was stupid—"

Gently, she covers Steve's hand with hers. "Stop. It wasn't. I...yeah, I have."

Jonathan's fingers run through her hair, the way she likes. "Any nightmares?"

"No."

"Oh, _fuck,_ is it already the fourth? Wow, Nance, I'm so sorry, I can't imagine—"

"Wait, what is it?"

It doesn't hurt as much as she expects it to when she says, "She was supposed to turn seventeen."

 

 

 

 

 

They don't leave.

"Think your brother was going to tell your mom you had massive cramps or something, that you'd be extra temperamental to get her to leave you alone. What—don't look at me like that, I'm directly quoting him!"

She tells them stories about Barb, about the day they met in second grade and she'd called everyone else morons except for Nancy and how they started a fire in Nancy's kitchen trying to bake. When her voice cracks and her eyes well with tears, she doesn't stop speaking, doesn't wipe them away; she lets the tears fall. It's hard holding them back and at this point, Nancy's physically incapable of keeping them in. They don't pity her. Everyone's lost something, even if she is the only person who's lost something she's never going to get back; it helps, knowing they understood. Because they _do._

They get it.

She lays down her walls, lays down every line of defence, armour and everything, and cries until she can’t. She’s not used to the feeling of weakness, but it feels manageable with them by her side. It’s a gift—to be completely and shamelessly human. She’s never been able to just _be_ with no conditions; except for with them.

That’s what she’s always wanted love to be like. That’s what it _is_ with Steve and Jonathan.

The sun’s long since set, the stars scattered out and abundant in the sky when Jonathan asks, “Want us to spend the night?”

"No, no, it's fine, you two need dinner. I'm sleeping alright, honest, and I'll be fine."

"How about," Steve proposes, "we head home, shower, grab something to eat, and come back? It'll be like a sleepover."

"Sleepover," she repeats, amused.

"I've never had a sleepover," Jonathan says, "should be fun."

She pretends to contemplate, scrunching her nose up. Steve dives in and kisses up and down her face, and she tries not to squeal too loudly, or else her mother will hear. "I'd like that."

Steve and Jonathan crawl out of her bed, stretching and yawning.

"Thank you,” she blurts out. “For coming."

"Anytime, anywhere, you need us and we're here," Jonathan says solemnly.

"We'll be back soon. Love you."

She shifts in her bed, dropping her head onto her pillow and watching them leave out her window.

Nancy sighs, casting her gaze onto the picture she has stuck up on her cork-board of her and Barbara. Her heart clenches, and it doesn't splice through her like she expected. It’s almost pleasant. She likes remembering Barbara with a smile on her face, her eyes lit up with the possibility of tomorrow. At least this way, she'll have her forever.

She wonders what she’d say about _this,_ about Nancy’s relationship.

She's not sure how much teasing Barbara would give her for being in love with _two_ boys, but Nancy knows she'd approve.

 

 

 

 

 

8.

Nancy has her head on Jonathan's lap, the two of them reading their own books, when there's a distant scream sounding from Steve's basement.

"What the _fuck_ did you do to me?" is the cry from Steve that's followed by some more screaming.

"Do you think someone died?" Jonathan sets his book down, rubbing his temples.

"For them to be this loud, someone _better_ be dead," she sighs, reluctantly lifting herself up from Jonathan's embrace. The two wearily trek down the staircase, parent-mode activated.

"What happened?" Nancy asks, hand-in-hand with Jonathan. All of the kids know about the three of them. When they'd announced it to them, they'd expected questions and confusion, not Dustin's "oh, good, this love triangle was dragging _out_ ". The three of them argued that they weren't  _that bad,_ and everyone had scoffed. The kids are cool with it, even if they do endlessly complain about their affection.

"Look what Max did!"

"Holy shit," Jonathan says.

Steve's hands are glued to his head, but they can't hide the results of a botched haircut. His hair, his stupidly glorious hair, has been cut, now half its original size with uneven strips of brown hair. The locks all vary lengths, some a third of the size of others, and—it's bad. _Bad._ Nancy has to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

Max is over, because it's become kind of a tradition since everything. She hops between households since no one wants to leave her in that house. Steve won't admit it, but he's fond of her; definitely fond enough to allow her with a pair of scissors near his hair.

But that might have changed now.

"Max," Steve says slowly, "Fix. This."

"I _can't._ I didn't—I didn't mean to! Don't get mad, I'm sorry, it's not that bad—"

Nancy twitches with discomfort, Jonathan's eyes glint with an uncomfortable recognition, and Steve's quick to change from pissed to understanding. "Hey," he soothes, "it's not a big deal, okay? I can get it fixed. Jonathan, you've cut Will's hair like a million times, right?"

“Uhh, yeah, yeah, I can fix it. How do you feel about a bowl cut?”

“No.”

Nancy smirks. "Thank you for this, Max."

Jonathan tries his best to work with what's left and it's not _as_ bad. It's not that great, either, but Steve puts up a solid front to keep Max from stumbling into apologies and feeling like shit. It's only when they reluctantly drop her home does Steve groan,  banging his head against the steering wheel.

"Drama queen," Nancy teases, "it does not look _that_ bad."

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"It'll grow back," Jonathan reassures.

"I'll still have to look like _this._ Half your attraction to me is the hair."

"Not half. Maybe a third," Nancy says.

They spend the remainder of their night soothing him. He shuts up about it, but he's so clearly upset; it's precious, how he drapes his body across them and sighs, pressing his face against their laps.

"Would it help if I said I'd still fuck you?" Jonathan says, playing with Steve's hair.

"Yeah, it does."

He's better by the end of the night. Jonathan leaves earlier since his mother has a night shift and someone needs to be with Will; Steve drops Nancy off half past eleven.

"For the record," she says, shutting the car door. She bends down until she's eye-level with him, arm braced against his car door. "You'd look sexy even if you were bald."

"You mean that?"

"Definitely." She feels his grin against her mouth when they meet for a kiss. "Good night, Steve."

"Night, Nance."

Hair or no hair, she'd love him, even if the current sight of him makes her laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

9.

Steve's having dinner with his mom. Ever since the divorce, he doesn't get to see her as often, and Nancy knows that despite his claims of enjoying the silence at home, of having an empty house, he hates it.

So she walks to Jonathan's house that Saturday on a whim, hoping halfway through that he's not working.

The door swings open and Jonathan stands with his hair wet, smelling like apricot. Nancy resists the urge to run her fingers through his hair, bury her face into his neck, and breathe him in.

"Hey," he greets, smiling, "didn't know you were planning on coming."

"Thought I'd surprise you. Unless you want me to go..."

"C'mere," he says, and he pulls her in for a kiss.

She hums against his mouth, kicking the door shut with her foot. "Did you just get out of the shower?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"'S a shame, since we're gonna make an absolute mess in your bedroom. Shirt off, please."

Later, they're pressed against each other, bodies slick with sweat, sheets sticking to their skin. They're quiet, but Nancy doesn't mind. She likes being next to him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting his breaths. It's reassuring.

"Nancy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I tell you something."

"Always," she says, turning her head to look up at him.

"I love you."

Her heart skips a beat. She strokes his hair with one hand, grabs his face with the other, and kisses him, sweet and slow. "Jonathan, you know that I..."

"Hey, it's fine. Didn't say it to hear it back, anyway."

Nancy kisses him again, over and over until her mouth is red.

Jonathan mumbles that he'd told Steve the week before, blurted it out in bed before he could help himself. That he wanted to tell her too, but wanted to do it with just the two of them.

It's not incessant, it doesn't come to her suddenly. It's a quiet voice in the back of her head as Jonathan eventually drifts off to sleep with his head nestled on her shoulder. It's barely a murmur, but she feels it so strongly that she whispers it to him, only when she's sure he's asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

10.

They're in the back of Steve's car, because _fuck,_ they can be normal teenagers.

"Your _knee_ is poking my back, Jonathan."

"Sorry, Nancy—I can't _see_ anything."

"Well, I'm fucking sorry I don't carry extra batteries for a flashlight!"

"Are you, are you really, because you don't sound very apologetic."

"Am I or am I _not_ literally trying to suck your dick right now?"

Nancy groans, laying her head down on the car seat. "Let's just admit this isn't working and drive back to Steve's."

They shift until they're sitting. "It was a valiant effort," Jonathan says, patting Steve's back. "Next time: batteries."

"Or we can come when it's not nine pm?"

"Nance, we can't just fuck in broad daylight. Part of the appeal is the dark, sexy thing going on, getting our breaths all over the windows and shit."

"I'm supposed to be aroused because I can't see your face or your body?" She snorts.

"That's like, one hundred percent of the appeal," Jonathan adds.

"You know when you say things like that I really wanna fuck—"

A rustling. Maybe in another lifetime, Nancy wouldn't bother caring about something so miniscule.

"What was that?" Nancy tightens her ponytail, determinedly ignoring the spike in her heartbeat. "Tell me you heard that."

"I don't hear anything," Jonathan says, his frown sounding in his voice.

"Listen," she hisses.

All she can hear is their breathing, until another noise of sticks turning. She's not imagining this shit. Something's outside. "I'm going out," she announces, leaning forward to grab her purse from the passenger seat.

"Whoa, whoa, _wait,_ we can't—"

"Steve, I've got this."

She already has her gun whipped out when she steps out of his car.

"Nancy, hold on, do _not_ go anywhere, just wait—"

Cautious step forward, gun cocked a little higher. Almost too easy. "I'm not an idiot, Jonathan, I know."

"I didn't—ow, _fuck,_ I forgot how sharp that bat was."

"Lemme kiss it better."

She fights back a smile. "Are we going forward or what?"

They inch forward slowly, carefully, following the stream of light from Steve's car. She's calm, relaxed with the two of them stalking behind her. They've done this before, they're still unscathed, she can handle it, they can handle—

" _Fuck!_ " Nancy's heart lurches out of her chest as with one step forward, she falls into a hole. Once she looks around, rubbing the back of her head, she wants to laugh, realizing that the noise was probably from a rabbit or something. Chuckles a little bit as she tries to soothe the throbbing, because _this,_ she'd take this any day.

"Nance, holy shit, where did you go—"

"Nancy!"

"Careful!" She screams. "Someone dug a fucking _hole,_ I, I fell in. Can you see me?"

"Move your hand or somethin'!"

She waves, but it's futile. She can make out their figures, their heads lifted up. "Can one of you lower your arms, I can kind of see you."

Steve extends his arm downwards and she jumps, her fingers brushing against his wrist. "Please, please, please tell me that was you."

"Yup, I just. I'm too _short._ A little lower."

"You okay down there?"

"Yes, Jonathan, I'm good. It's just a hole." Then she actually laughs, because this is so mundane and stupid, and she _deserves_ something mundane and stupid. "I'm sorry, it's just—I'm relieved, I guess. And tired."

"Oh, baby, I know, just, here, is that better?"

She manages to grab onto Steve's hand and he pulls her up, reeling her into his arms once she's up on the ground. Nancy tosses her gun elsewhere once she realizes they're not going to let her go and that she doesn't want them to. She crashes into their shoulders, but it's a good crash because their arms wrap around her and she breathes them in. They're all sprawled across the grass, arms around each other, breathless and relieved.

Her head pounds, but it's okay. She's okay.

"I thought. I dunno, thought there were _portals_ or something. Like a thing just kidnapped you out of thin air," Steve rasps, hugging her.

She wipes some dirt out of his hair, smiling.

"Who the fuck. Digs a stupid fucking _hole._ And leaves it there. Nancy, did you get hurt?"

"Jonathan, I'm okay," she promises, pressing her forehead against his. "Just a stupid fucking hole," she laughs.

"A stupid fucking hole," Steve repeats. "Add that to the list of dumb shit in Hawkins. This town won't even let us have sex."

"If I'm not mistaken, it was _you_ and your lack of batteries—"

"You are mistaken, in fact, and now there goes your blowjob." But Steve's laughing and they're all a mess of giggles.

They dust themselves off and help Nancy to her feet. She's a little woozy and lightheaded, but there's no bleeding anywhere and she's not in any pain.  They go back to Steve's and don't fuck; Nancy insists she's fine, but Steve and Jonathan figure they can wait a few days. Instead, they settle on curling up on Steve's couch, watching a sports' game that Jonathan doesn't know the rules to and Nancy doesn't care about. He makes them tea and won't stop kissing her forehead, while Jonathan keeps staring at her throughout the game.

"What?" She eventually says.

"Nothing. I just got scared earlier. I'm glad you're okay."

"You act like we _need_ a reason to gawk at you."

She glows. Her heart spins a little, and _this_ is where she wants to be, wedged in between her boys, with arms slung over her shoulders, their entwined hands on her lap.

She's so irrevocably in love. Nancy knows now what every single romance book she's read in middle school was talking about.

Their love story isn't one she ever imagined having, and yet, she's so righteously proud it's theirs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

+1.

Nancy doesn't know _why_ it takes her so long to say it.

Maybe it's her parents. Their _I love you's_ were rare and when it was said, it was always in a clipped tone, airy and always disingenuous. She knows for a fact they don't love each other; perhaps one day they did, but it wasn't a day that Nancy's ever seen, so it doesn't matter. If anything, that makes it worse.

Maybe it's _her._ She's seventeen and she's meant to feel like a ditsy, stupid kid. Sometimes she does feel like it. She’s seventeen, and sometimes she thinks that she doesn’t even know what love is, that she can’t, she’s too young. It's difficult to validate her own whirlwind of emotions when she barely understands them herself (god, _fuck_ being a teenager). Everything at this age feels temporary and fragile—

but their relationship, she's learned, won't break despite how much it'll bend. It's real. It's strong. It's going to last.

Maybe it doesn't really matter why she can't say it; maybe it just matters that eventually, she can, and eventually, she does.

 

 

 

 

They fuck off to a pier right at the outskirts of Hawkins during a long weekend. She's been there with Steve a few times in the first few months of their relationship, back when it was a tentative, new thing, something Nancy didn’t believe would last as long as it has.  She’d been the one to suggest the location; it was quiet, empty, and they could exist as freely as they wanted to.

Jonathan picks them up. Nancy nearly gasps when she sees him and what he’s wearing, namely his  light, yellow shirt. The black jeans that hang loosely off his legs don’t surprise her, but the yellow—she’s never seen him in something other than white, grey, and black. “What’s _this?_ Jonathan Byers, wearing something with colour?”

“I _know!_ ” Steve beams, leaning forward from the passenger seat. “Doesn’t it bring out his eyes—”

“Makes him look like a sunflower, too, doesn’t he, Steve—”

“Are we done,” Jonathan says, lifting an eyebrow. He’s trying for sardonic, but the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth invalidates his attempt.

She leans across the opened window, kissing his cheek. “I think you look cute.”

“Can I have a kiss?”

“You stole the passenger seat. You can give up the seat for a kiss, if you want.”

Nancy’s completely joking; she doesn’t expect him to take her up on her offer, but she has a kiss and the seat she wanted, so she doesn’t mind.

It’s a twenty minute drive, and Jonathan’s convinced they’re lost.

“We’re literally in the middle of nowhere,” he huffs, thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He's slowed down, staring out the window with his eyebrows furrowed.

Steve sits on the edge of his seat, clapping one hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, the other on Nancy’s. “Keep driving. I know where it is.”

“How, it’s literally all _road_ and _trees!_ ”

“Jonathan,” Nancy groans, “keep driving. We know what we’re talking about.”

Jonathan stops complaining and sure enough, they find the pier.  The boardwalk is empty and the lake is just as pretty as she remembers, the water almost sparkling with blue hues. “Told ya,” Steve says, poking his stomach. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

“You brought lunch?” Nancy asks in disbelief, and sure enough, he hoists a basket from next to his feet. Steve Harrington is so  _unreal_ and it makes her mouth curl upwards into a smile, her head shaking slightly. "Let's eat, then."  

On the boardwalk, Nancy spreads out a blanket she'd brought from home, and the three curl up next to each other in a circle—more of a triangle, really, their knees pressed together.  Steve and Nancy let Jonathan take a few pictures, before whining that he comes back, slapping a triangluar-shaped sandwich onto his lap. 

Nancy rifles through the basket for a juice-box, fingers stumbling upon a container of brownies. "You made brownies," she says to Steve. "You are perfect."

Steve chuckles. There's no suave response, just his faint blush.

It's a hot day. Steve discards his shirt and Jonathan and Nancy settle on either side of him, soaking in the sun. They're silent, nothing but the whooshing of water ringing in her ears. She blindly reaches for Jonathan, and she could fall asleep like this, with her boys, with the sun seeping into her skin—

"Stereo! We need music!" Steve says loudly, stumbling up to his feet. 

Jonathan and Nancy both hiss, because some warning would've been nice as their heads bump to the hard wood. 

"It's in the back," Jonathan calls out. 

Nancy cranes her head, staring at him. "What inspired the shirt?" She tugs on the material, unintentionally tugging him towards her. 

"Steve left it at my place the other week. But I think he bought it for me? He doesn't want me to return it and it fits me. Plus, you know, obviously if he's going to buy me any clothing, it's going to look like  _this._ " Jonathan pinches the bottom of his shirt, lower lip curled in disdain for a brief moment before his face brightens with a smile. 

Huh. It does fit, she thinks, as opposed to everything else Jonathan owns. Something in her chest stirs when she looks back at Steve, who's rummaging through Jonathan's trunk. "He's onto something. I like you in yellow."

"I like you in  _any colour_ _._ "

"I like you in me." A beat. They burst into laughter. "I thought that'd sound better," she says, blushing as Jonathan pulls her on top of him.  

"Sounded quite romantic to me," he mumbles, kissing her.  

Steve comes back with Jonathan's stereo and a wide grin, sliding in between them. "If you guys don't sing along with me, I'm pushing you both in." 

He presses play, and the first thing she hears is the familiar riff of one of The Clash's songs. Jonathan beams and Steve looks proud of himself, lowering the stereo out in front of them.

" _Darling, you got to let me know,_ " Steve sings, footing Jonathan's calf with his eyebrows raised.

" _Should I stay or should I go?_ "

Steve cackles victoriously and they sing together, both horribly off-key. She knows the words, it's impossible to date Jonathan Byers and  _not_ know the words to every song by The Clash, but she doesn't sing or even hum along. She resigns herself to watching them, watching the joy in their eyes, the ease in their voices. 

It's the easiest thing in the world to say, "I love you," so she does, and she feels every word as she says it.

You'd  _think_ that a long-awaited proclamation of love would have Steve and Jonathan stop their singing, but no, they continue, having not heard her.

" _One day it's fine and next it's black,"_ Steve choruses.

" _So if you want me off your_ —"

"Hey, assholes! I'm  _trying_ to confess my love for you two!"

Singing stops. Stereo is slowly turned off. Jaws are slack, pupils dilated, and she has no idea who she wants to jump onto first, so she jumps on them both. 

"I _love_ you both. So, so much."

"Nance," Steve says, his eyes twinkling, "your knee's in my stomach."

She laughs as she smacks his shoulder. "Asshole."

"Say it again," Jonathan says, and he sounds enchanted.

"I love you, Jonathan Byers." She dives down, pressing her mouth against his. " _So fucking much._ " Another kiss. "Okay? I love you."

He licks his lips. "Okay."

"Ok—you guys are the _worst._ " But she's laughing, and they're laughing, and later, when they're laid out together, the sun quieting and the stars rising, they'll tell her they love her.

And she'll say it back.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I appreciate you!!!!!! thanks 4 existing!!!!!!!
> 
> fun fact: Steve and Jonathan's names are used an equal amount in this fic which I found immensely satisfying
> 
> please comment/kudos if you liked! also, like.....if u wanna let me know which number was your favourite, that'd be radical too
> 
> have a lovely day :D
> 
> ps. come talk 2 me on Tumblr @ trulyalpha


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